


Cloth and Pages

by Redisaid



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F, Female Solo, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 21:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2887739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redisaid/pseuds/Redisaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Going to bed alone is still too hard...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cloth and Pages

She’s not the type that admits to being wrong. While grace is ingrained deeply within her—no longer forced so much as it is automatic—she has never been graceful in defeat. Her pursuits are higher things. She is needed, as is her work. She is valuable and that’s because she’s made herself valuable. Not everyone can do that. Most people can’t. Most wouldn't want the long hours, the stress. She tells herself it helps her thrive—it drives her. She can’t even sleep, though. She so rarely gets time to even think about rest, but when the dark comes, she just can’t close her eyes.

She doesn't want to give in. It’s more than distasteful. The fact that she sometimes feels like she just needs it is even worse. Yet there she is, burrowing into that old t-shirt.

_“You smell like books,” she once said. It was the most romantic thing she’d ever said. She loved books. She loved the feel of the pages between her fingers—some rough and grainy, others gone silky and delicate with age. She loved the weight of them in her lap, the way they sunk into her hips and settled there. She loved how they smelled, like age old dust and the hands of a thousand long gone strangers. She’d never told anyone that, not even anything close to it._

_“Pfft, what? You’re such a nerd,” was the response she got to this most heartfelt comment._

_It stuck inside her heart like the gum it was made of in the first place. “Yeah, but I like books,” she tried to explain. “I really like them.”_

_“Nerd,” Marceline replied. She poked at Bubblegum’s nose with her own. “My nerdy little nerd.”_

It still smells a little like books to her. At such late hours and in such states of near delirium, she doesn't trust her own observations. It’s been washed dozens, perhaps hundred of times since then. She kept her disappointment to herself the first time she found it missing, only to watch it come back clean and folded in Peppermint Butler’s arms. She’s read studies about scent and memory. She knows, yet she still tries to resist.

It’s a different book that she smells, though. It’s not quite an encyclopedia and nothing like a text book. It’s between a novel and something a little more refined, really. If anything, it’s closest to an old book of poems she once found buried deep in a spiderweb-strewn bottom shelf of the library. The dust and must of rhythm begs her to remember—and she does.

She remembers teeth and tongue, cool hands and a colder laugh. All of these had a rhythm, one that drove her crazy. It made her feel and want things she’d never felt or wanted. She missed it when she couldn't have it.

She buries herself completely in the shirt. She hides in it. The threadbare fabric slides up her nose until it hits the barrier of her brow. There’s no sleeping now. All she can think about is the feeling of fang tips grazing her skin, threatening every inch—of slender fingers and the wonderful things they did. She hates to admit she’s wrong. She hates to admit she misses this—needs it. She gives up. She’s been giving up a lot lately. She uncurls only slightly, and sighs as she slips a hand down where she remembers those cool, clever fingers.

She hates to admit that she’s not really good at doing this for herself. It’s frustrating and lonely. It usually ends in disappointment. It’s nothing like she remembers, but sometimes, it’s just enough to put her to sleep.

She remembers the smell of pages, of words and letters and those few times when the white space between them seems to make more sense. She remembers how it was supposed to be a fling, another experiment of sorts, but yes, it was something a little more than that. The reaction spiraled out of control, a din of rhythm and teeth and—glob—she let Marceline bite her. She didn't even ask what the ramifications might be. She just let her, and it hurt, but then it made everything else so much better.

Marceline would laugh, then she’d stop laughing. She’s purr. She’d growl. If she were there at that moment, she’d be laughing, though. She’d probably laugh and say something like, “Need a hand?” then laugh again. Maybe not. Hopefully not. Bubblegum wishes, not so deep down inside anymore, that the vampire would just slip through the window and everything would be how it was. No questions asked. No need for any surrenders, at least not yet.

_Heady and drained, she fell boneless onto the pillow. Cool skin melded with hers. Feathery kisses trailed over her shoulders. “I can be anything you want me to be,” Marceline told her._

_Bubblegum’s eyes were closed, but she could feel the cold form on top of her almost melting, loosening the grip on its substance and awaiting her orders. “I want you,” she commanded. “Just you.”_

_Marceline made a noise she’d never heard before. It was something between a moan and a sigh. She wasn't sure if it was a good noise, so much so that she opened her eyes. She caught black tresses trailing their way down her breasts, her stomach and then her hips. Nails followed them._

_“Then tell me if you don’t like this,” Marceline hesitated, then let out a little puff of a laugh, purposefully against sensitive skin, “but I’m pretty sure you will.”_

A contented sigh escapes her lips and lingers hot between them and the thin black fabric of the shirt. She misses her. She misses her so much, but she’ll never admit to it. Still, this is better now. She can imagine a long dark tongue, a smirk, and eerie eyes peering up at her, waiting for a compliment that she has no breath left to deliver. It helps. She might even sleep tonight.


End file.
